


Interview with a Vampire

by orphan_account



Series: The Vampire Chronicles [1]
Category: J2 - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Hurt Jensen Ackles, J2, M/M, Vampire Jared Padalecki, Vampire Jensen Ackles, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:31:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen has a story, it's long and seems to be as old as time itself. Misha Collins, a budding journalist in modern day Vancouver, is eager to unlock Jensen's mysterious story. However, what he learns might be more than what he bargained for. </p>
<p>Jensen is tired, wine tastes like dust and the only memories he holds dear, are the ones he'd be better off forgetting. As he tells the naive journalist his life's manifesto, he realizes something that may save, not only himself, but the one he loves dearly.</p>
<p>(Very loosely based on Interview with a Vampire at the beginning but more inspired by Bram Stoker's Dracula)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to try and update this story every Wednesday and Friday. I may fudge a bit on the Friday date if my life gets crazy busy but I will try and be as consistent as possible.

" I see . . ." said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room towards the window. For a long time he stood there against the dim light from the street and the passing beams of traffic. Misha Collins could see the furnishings of the room more clearly now, the round oak table, the chairs. A wash basin hung on one wall with a mirror. He set his brief case on the table and waited.

"But how much tape do you have with you? " asked the vampire, turning now so Misha could see his profile. " Enough for the story of a life? "

"Sure, if it's a good life. Sometimes I interview as many as three or four people a night if I'm lucky. But it has to be a good story. That's only fair, isn't it? "

"Admirably fair, " the vampire answered. " I would like to tell you the story of my life, then. I would like to do that very much. "

"Great, " said Misha. And quickly he removed the small tape recorder from his brief case, making a check of the cassette and the batteries. " I'm really anxious to hear why you believe this, why you . . . "

"No, " said the vampire abruptly. " We can't begin that way. Is your equipment ready? "

"Yes, " said Misha.

"Then sit down. I'm going to turn on the overhead light. "

"But I thought vampires didn't like light, " said Misha.

"If you think the dark adds to the atmosphere. " But then he stopped. The vampire was watching him with his back to the window. Misha could make out nothing of his face now, and something about the still figure there distracted him. He started to say something again but he said nothing. And then he sighed with relief when the vampire moved towards the table and reached for the overhead cord. At once the room was flooded with a harsh yellow light. And Misha, staring up at the vampire, could not repress a gasp. His fingers danced backwards on the table to grasp the edge.

"Dear God! " he whispered, and then he gazed, speechless, at the vampire. The vampire was utterly white and smooth, as if he were sculpted from bleached bone, the only imperfections where the freckles that dusted his face, and he was as seemingly inanimate as a statue, except for two brilliant green eyes that looked down at Misha intently like flames in a skull. But then the vampire smiled almost wistfully, and the smooth white substance of his face moved with the infinitely flexible but minimal lines of a cartoon.

"Do you see? " he asked softly.

Misha shuddered, lifting his hand as if to shield himself from a powerful light. His eyes moved slowly over the finely tailored black coat he'd only glimpsed in the bar, the long folds of the cape, the black silk tie knotted at the throat, and the gleam of the white collar that was as white as the vampire's flesh. He stared at the vampire's sun kissed brown hair, cut shortly over the tips of the ears.

"Now, do you still want the interview? " the vampire asked.

Misha's mouth was open before the sound came out. He was nodding. Then he said, " Yes. "

The vampire sat down slowly opposite him and, leaning forward, said gently, confidentially, " Don't be afraid. Just start the tape. " And then he reached out over the length of the table. Misha recoiled, sweat running down the sides of his face. The vampire clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder and said, " Believe me, I won't hurt you. I want this opportunity. It's more important to me than you can realize now. I want you to begin. "

And he withdrew his hand and sat collected, waiting. It took a moment for Misha to wipe his forehead and his lips with a handkerchief, to stammer that the microphone was in the machine, to press the button, to say that the machine was on. "You weren't always a vampire, were you? " he began.

"No, " answered the vampire. " I was a twenty-five year-old man when I became a vampire, and the year was eighteen ninety-three. "

Misha was startled by the preciseness of the date and he repeated it before he asked, " How did it come about? "

"There's a simple answer to that. I don't believe I want to give simple answers, " said the vampire. " I think I want to tell the real  
story. . . '

"Yes, " Misha agreed quickly.

"I was curious . . . " the vampire started. " Much how you are . . . . I was a journalist. " And then he stopped, so that Misha cleared his throat and wiped at his face again before stuffing the handkerchief almost impatiently into his pocket.

"It's not painful, is it? " he asked timidly.

"Does it seem so? " asked the vampire. " No. " He shook his head. " It's simply that I've only told this story to one other person. And that was so long ago. No, it's not painful. I was living in Texas then. I'd received a land grant and settled two plantations near what is now the capital of Texas... "

"Ah, that's the accent . . . " Misha whispered softly.

For a moment the vampire stared blankly. " I have an accent? " He began to laugh.

And Misha, flustered, answered quickly. " I noticed it in the bar when I asked you what you did for a living. It's just a slight sharpness to the consonants, that's all. I never guessed it was Southern. "

"It's all right, " the vampire assured him. " I am not as shocked as I pretend to be. It's only that I forget it from time to time. But let me go on. . . . '

"Please . . " said Misha.

"I was talking about the plantations. They had a deal to do with it, really, my becoming a vampire. While I had received the grants to honor my fathers wishes, I had no desire to work the land. I felt most at home investigating the mysteries of our world, it was this curiosity that ironically became my destiny. As my desire to leave the plantations grew, I invited danger. I invited death upon my lands so that I might leave the broken soil for somewhere new. Soon after I had received word of my fathers death, the land dried up and would produce no crops, I took it as my invitation to leave. I sold the plantations. I never wanted to see the house or the land again. I leased them finally to an agency which would work them for me and manage things so I need never go there, and I moved up north to New York. It was there I got the idea to go to Europe."

"Europe?" Misha asked politely. "You really had wanderlust."

"Wander....lust." the vampire smiled and looked up. "Yes I suppose I did have a great deal of wanderlust."

" Do you miss it? " he asked then in a small voice.

"Miss what?"

"Texas. The plantations, your home."

" Not really, " said the vampire. " There are so many other things. But where were we? You want to know how it happened, how I became a vampire. "

" Yes, " said Misha. " How did you change, exactly? "

" I can't tell you exactly, " said the vampire. " I can tell you about it, enclose it with words that will make the value of it to me evident to you. But I can't tell you exactly, any more than I could tell you exactly what is the experience of sex if you have never had it. But first, you must know the scene of my transformation and that begins in Europe." "It was upon overhearing a short rumor while in New York that I got the idea to travel across the seas. A rumor of a monster the haunted a Transylvanian castle by night and slept by day."

"Wait," Misha interrupted, chuckling. "Do you mean to say that _Dracula_ turned you into a vampire?"

The vampire shared a rye smile. "No, not _Count Dracula._ He is, I must regretfully inform you, a terrible myth." His face grew somber then. "There was however a vampire living within the ancient ruins of a long forgotten country. A vampire, a man unlike any I had ever seen before."

It was quiet then, and Misha felt the air in the room like a weight. "Do you mind if I ask you your name?"

The vampire stared into Misha for what relatively appeared to be eternity, when he finally spoke, Misha was startled by the noise. 

"I will tell you my name, if you allow me to tell you my story. Beginning to end, no interruptions, no questions. Will you allow me that?"

"Yes." Misha said, swallowing thickly. 

"Then, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Jensen and my story as you wish to know it, truly begins in a small village just outside of the last standing castle in Transylvania...."


	2. Bistritz

Jensen left Munich at 8:35 P.M on the 1st of May and arrived in Vienna early the next morning. He would have arrived at 6:46 but the train was an hour late. 

Of the glimpse he'd seen from the train, he found the town of Buda-Pesth a wonderful place. He'd even ventured into the streets for as far as he could before returning to the station. 

Aboard the train he was left with the impression that he was leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is of noble width and depth, took him among the traditions of Turkish rule. 

Jensen had briefly studied German as a child and found it useful when communicating with the locals. 

He had been studying the area he was traveling to and found a colorful history decorated its past. The superstitions spread from the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.  He'd tried to grasp the exact origin of the tale from the locals but was met with resistance. However he found that Bistritz, a town named by a Count and at the heart of the superstition, was a fairly well-known starting point. 

Jensen wrote down all that he'd learned in a journal his father had given to him. As the train moved through the country, he wrote down all he knew.

_I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory and prove as evidence should I go missing.'_

He didn't feel any particular fear from the superstitions but his sense of adventure prompted him to include that last part.

_'I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting.'_

 

 

All day long the train seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. Jensen marveled at little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as those he saw in old missals; sometimes the train ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear.

At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those he'd seen coming through France and Germany, with short jackets, and round hats, and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque.

It was on the dark side of twilight when Jensen arrived at Bistritz, which he noted as a _'very interesting old place'_.

Upon departing the train, he immediately searched for a place to stay the night and found the Golden Krone Hotel. An  old-fashioned inn, that both delighted and disappointed the weary traveler. While he reveled in the hospitality, he had expected the ruggedness he'd heard whispers of. 

When he arrived, he found he was expected. Jensen was met at the door by a cheery-looking elderly woman in peasant dress--white undergarment with a long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty. When he came close she bowed and said, "The Englishman from the New World?"

"Yes," he said, startled "I am Jensen Ackles, am I expected?."

She smiled, and whispered to an elderly man in white shirtsleeves, who had followed her to the door.

He went, but immediately returned with a letter:

"My friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from The New World has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.--Your friend, Jared."

Jensen paused, unable to form a sound thought. "Where did you receive this from?" he finally managed. 

For a moment the elderly man pretended that he could not understand Jensen's German, but after while he finally answered. 

"The letter came from a Count, he directed us to secure the best place on the coach for you."

Jensen looked incredulous. _'How had he known of my arrival? Who is this count?'_

The elderly man and his wife looked at each other in a frightened manner. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When Jensen asked him if he knew a Count Jared, and could tell him anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. 

Jensen found that no one in the Hotel was willing to discuss the Count, and crossed themselves whenever he asked. 

 _'Somehow this Count must know why I have come here. It is all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.'_ That night, Jensen slept very little.

 

Just before Jensen was leaving, the old lady came up to his room. 

"Must you go? Oh! Must you go?" She was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which Jensen did not know at all. He was just able to follow her by asking many questions.

He had thought through the night on what his decision would be. Would he follow the Counts directions or continue on his travels?

After much hard though, he had decided to go. The fear surrounding the name was enough to lead Jensen to believe that the Count may be the source of the superstition.

When Jensen told the old woman that he must go at once, she asked "Do you know what day it is?"

"The fourth of May." He answered politely.

She shook her head, "Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?"

"I don't believe I understand what you mean." 

"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?" She was in such evident distress that Jensen tried to comfort her, but without effect.

Finally, she went down on her knees and implored him not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting.

Jensen saw how very ridiculous it was and did not feel comfortable but knew that it had to be done and he could allow nothing to interfere with it. 

He took her by the arm and tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as he could, "Thank you for your concern but I must go. It is not every day one is summoned by a count."

She quickly dried her eyes, took the crucifix from her neck. She held it out to Jensen. 

Jensen did not know what to do, for, after his father died,  he regarded such things as  idolatrous trinkets, however it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind.

She saw, Jensen supposed, the doubt on his face, for she put the rosary round his neck and said, "For your mother's sake," and went out of the room.

 

He later wrote about the events in his journal while waiting for the coach, which was late; and the crucifix was still around his neck. 

_'Whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. Ah, the coach arrived.'_

When Jensen got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and noticed him talking to the landlady.

It was evident to Jensen that they where talking of him, for every now and then they looked at him, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door came and listed, then looked at him, most of them pityingly. He strained his ears and could hear a lot of words repeated, many he'd heard before when discovering the rumors of this area.

_'Ordog is Satan, Pokol is Hell, Stregoica is Witch, and Vrolok/Vlkoslak are Slovak and Servian words for werewold or vampire.'_

 

By the time the coach finally started, the crowd around the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards Jensen. 

Jensen motioned to a fellow passenger and pointed outside. "What does that mean?"

The man would not answer at first, but eventually he explained, "It is a charm or guard against the evil eye."

Jensen looked back out at the crowd, as they faded into the distance he spotted the old woman. She was weeping. 

_'This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched.'_

Jensen knew that he shall never forget the last glimpse he had of the inn yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard.

Jensen soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as they drove along. Before him lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as they drove by, Jensen could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. The road was rugged, but still they seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. The driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund.

When it grew dark Jensen noticed some excitement amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to the driver, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Suddenly through the darkness Jensen could see a sort of patch of grey light ahead, as though there were a cleft in the hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater.

At last he saw the Pass opening out on the eastern side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now they had got into the thunderous one. Jensen was now  looking out for the conveyance which was to take him to the Count. Each moment he expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness, but all was dark. The only light was the flickering rays of their own lamps, in which the steam from the drivers hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. Jensen could see now the sandy road lying white before him, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock his own disappointment. He was already considering what he had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which Jensen could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone, he thought it was "An hour less than the time." Then turning to Jensen, he spoke in German worse than Jensens.

"There is no carriage here. You are not expected after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next day, better the next day." Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove up behind the coach, overtook it, and drew up beside the vehicle Jensen could see from the flash of the lamps as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from the passengers. Jensen could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed green in the lamplight, as he turned to the driver.

"You are early tonight, my friend."

"The Englishmen was in a hurry." The man stammered.

"That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend. I know too much, and my horses are swift." The stranger replied.

As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a soft-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of the passengers next to Jensen whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore".

"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell." ("For the dead travel fast.")

The strange driver heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. "Give me the Englishmen's luggage," said the driver, and with exceeding alacrity Jensens bags were handed out and put in the caleche. It was then that Jensen decided to descend from the side of the coach.

The driver helped Jensen into the carriage with a hand which caught his arm in a grip of steel. While it pained Jensen, he did not show it. 

Without a word the driver shook his reins, the horses turned, and Jensen was once again swept into the darkness of the pass.

As they sank into the darkness Jensen felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over him. But not long after the feeling arose, a cloak was thrown over his shoulders, and a rug across his knees.

The driver spoke in excellent German--"The night is chill and my master, the Count, bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of brandy underneath the seat, if you should require it."

Jensen did not take any(having given up liqueur after watching his father drown from it), but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. He felt a little strange, and not in a minor way frightened.

_'I think there having been an alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting this unknown night journey.'_

The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then it made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to Jensen that they were simply going over and over the same ground again, and so he took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. He would have liked to have asked the driver what it all meant, but before he could he felt fear grip him, for he figured that, placed as he was, any protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay.

By-and-by, however, as Jensen grew curious to know how time was passing, he struck a match, and by its flame looked at his watch. It was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave him a shock,  the general superstition about midnight was increased by his recent experiences. So Jensen waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road, a long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. 

At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of the carriage began a louder and a sharper howling, that of wolves, which affected both the horses and Jensen in the same way. He was minded to jump from the caleche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, Jensen's own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them.

He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as Jensen had heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.

Soon they were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the roadway till they passed. Jensen grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared his fear. The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed. He kept turning his head to left and right, but when Jensen tried to look into the trees he could not see anything through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on Jensen's left he saw a faint flickering blue flame.

"What is that?" He asked, desperate for answers.

The driver did not answer, and instead jumped to the ground. He quickly checked the horses before disappearing into the darkness. 

Jensen did not know what to do, and became nearly frantic as the howling of the wolves grew closer. However, just as he made up his mind to leave the carriage, the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat. They resumed on their journey, speeding onward through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves surrounding them as though they were following in a moving circle.

Once more, the carriage stopped and the driver disappeared into the darkness again. Jensen called out to him, in hopes of gleaning where he was. It was then that the sound of the wolves disappeared and the driver climbed back into the caleche. 

 

 This was so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon Jensen, and he was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as they swept on their way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon.

 Suddenly, Jensen became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky.

It was then that Jensen lost grip of his mind, and fell into darkness. 


	3. Questions

The vampire took a breath, and Misha noticed the chill in the room. 

"I know you have questions, so ask them now, before I continue."

Misha blinked, surprised. He hastily looked through the notes he had taken so far and rubbed his eyes. 

"So you are summoned by this mysterious Count and you decide, what the hell might as well go? Did you have any regard for your own safety?"

The vampire chuckled and ran a hand through his hair to the nape of his neck and rubbed it for a moment. " I don't believe I cared to much. I had gone there in search of something more and darkness had sought me out in return. I know I have glossed over the topic of my father's death but at the time it had shaken me so. I invited danger and death onto myself, just as I had done onto my land and once again, it found me."

Misha wrote furiously, trying to make sense of the story so far.  "And what of the town, what of the Inn? I take it you never saw them again?" 

"No. I never saw them again. However, I still have this." The vampire reached into his collar and pulled out a long gold chain, at the end was a simple crucifix. 

"Wait," Misha squinted at the crucifix, and saw that the metal was indeed very old."Don't crucifixes burn your kind?"

The vampire smiled and Misha was once again struck by his otherworldly beauty in an unsettling way. He shivered.

"Yes, it does burn. I wear it to remind myself who I once was, the mortal I once was." He tucked the chain back into his collar and returned his hands to their previous folded position on the table. 

"Alright, well what about this darkness thing, did you faint?" 

The vampire closed his eyes and shook his head 'No.'

"It was more than that, yes I was asleep but I did not do so out of exhaustion or fear. I would later learn it was the owner of the castle who had caused me to fall into sleep but we shall get to that later. Shall I continue? We are about to meet my maker."

Misha noticed the vampires lips turn up slightly at that last part. "Yes. Yes. Please continue, thank you."

The vampire nodded and continued to tell his story.

 


End file.
